


Between the Bars

by nutmeag83



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Feelings, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Romantic Fluff, Season/Series 03, Stag Night, Warm and Fuzzy Feelings, different ending, tsot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-25
Updated: 2017-02-25
Packaged: 2018-09-26 21:47:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,357
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9923483
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nutmeag83/pseuds/nutmeag83
Summary: “And yet…it’s so very Sherlock, which is charming, as almost everything he does is, no matter how annoying. And John knows Sherlock is trying so hard to give John the best night he can. But still, it’d be nice to just cut loose a little. Not to mention, the harder the detective tries, the less John wants this to be a stag night and more a night for just the two of them. A date, even?”





	1. Drink Up, Baby, Look at the Stars

**Author's Note:**

> Inspiration struck when I was listening to one of my favorite songs, [Between the Bars](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FktNzLg_te4) by Madeleine Peyroux. I couldn’t help but thinking of J&S on the stag night and what might have happened if one of them had made a move while they were walking from one bar to the next (rather than back at Baker Street after, which many people have already covered). So what if they’d only been slightly tipsy and one of them made a move? There’d be more of a chance of neither thinking it a mistake or confusion, right? So here’s my way of diverting canon before the wedding.
> 
> Not beta-ed or Brit-picked. I wrote this late one evening after a long work day, so it’s probably full of mistakes, but this is a story I didn’t want to overthink or over edit, so I’m just posting as is. I hope it’s not too terrible.
> 
> As usual, rating is only for language. Otherwise, it’s clean as a whistle. ;)
> 
> Enjoy!

They are only two bars in, but John is already having a horrid time. He had initially been rather glad that Sherlock refused to let anyone else attend the stag night—it gave him one last chance to gauge Sherlock’s interest before John committed to Mary—but so far Sherlock has been timing their every step and counting every milliliter of liquid they’re imbibing. It’s ridiculously stringent and boring. And yet…it’s so very Sherlock, which is charming, as almost everything he does is, no matter how annoying. And John knows Sherlock is trying so hard to give John the best night he can. But still, it’d be nice to just cut loose a little. Not to mention, the harder the detective tries, the less John wants this to be a stag night and more a night for just the two of them. A date, even?

He’d had time to think after Sherlock jumped—too much time—and he’d finally allowed himself to admit that he was in love with his (dead) best friend, had been for ages. And when Sherlock had returned, the only reason John didn’t walk straight up to him and snog him senseless was because he was so fucking mad at the damned idiot. If they’d been alone, maybe it would have been different. But John had been in the middle of a proposal in a posh restaurant and felt like he couldn’t back out of it.

But he’d had plenty of time since then to realize that he deserved to at least have a chance at what he really wanted. And what he really wanted wasn’t Mary, sweet and lovely and supportive as she was; no, it was the tall git timing their bar visits and measuring every bit of liquid that went in or came out.

John would rather be back at Baker Street, just the two of them and a couple glasses of whiskey, but Sherlock won’t let the night end until they make it to every bar on his list (all on streets where they had found a corpse—seriously, how adorable is that?). So John needs to wait until they reach the next quiet-ish bar and just say what’s on his mind. Well, assuming he’s gotten enough social lubricant in him. He doesn’t think he can say it completely sober.

They’re walking down the pavement to Bar Number Three when his plans change. Sherlock is slightly tipsy, and he keeps slowing down, distracted by seemingly random things on the street. John is close to just grabbing his hand to keep Sherlock moving when Sherlock slows further before stopping completely. John sighs and turns around to see what’s got the idiot’s attention this time, only to see Sherlock gazing up at the sky with a soft look.

John looks up to see if there’s an alien spaceship or something else worthy of the man’s attention, only to see the same London night sky as usual. It’s clear, so you can actually see a smattering of stars—though it’s got nothing on a clear, quiet night in Afghanistan.

“Sherlock?” John questions softly, coming to stand next to his friend. “Everything okay?”

“Mmm. Yes. Just enjoying the stars.”

John chuckles fondly. “You must be drunker than you’re letting on. They look the same as always.”

“Doesn’t make them less beautiful,” Sherlock counters. He slowly lowers his face, looking sweet and peaceful as his eyes rest on John.

And there’s something about his expression that makes John catch his breath and whisper, “They’re not a beautiful as you.”

Sherlock’s own breathing stops, and he looks sharply at John.

John takes a fortifying breath and whispers, “I can’t do it, Sherlock.” John’s voice cracks, and he clears his throat. “If there’s _any_ chance that there could be something more between you and me, there’s no way I can marry Mary. Tell me I’m wrong—that I’m completely making up this feeling that you want it too—and I’ll shut up and never mention this again. I’ll make the vow, and I’ll be content with her. _Happy_ with her. But…if I’m not seeing things wrong. If I’m not reading too much into it because I’m colored by my own feelings for you, then _kiss me right now_. I’ll go to Mary, tell her I can’t go through with the wedding, and I’ll be back at Baker Street, and I’ll _never_ leave again.” His voice has mostly deserted him by the time the words finishing tumbling out of his mouth. He hopes Sherlock heard and understood him, because he’s not sure he has the strength to say it all again.

Sherlock is doing that staring thing he’d done when John had asked him to be his best man. He’s like a robot that’s in the middle of rebooting, entire body frozen while his brain processes. John doesn’t know if this is good or bad. If it’s like last time, it’s good. Sherlock will finish processing and will then be flattered and happy. But what if he’s freaking out and trying to decide how to let John down? The man isn’t the best at talking about his emotions (not that John is, but that’s a whole other kettle of fish).

So John waits on tenterhooks while his friend decides his fate—their fate. He tries not to fidget, not to stand closer or go running away while Sherlock is preoccupied. He stands his ground, fists clenched, while trying to take slow, even breaths.

What seems like eons later, Sherlock gasps a breath and blinks rapidly. “Your…feelings…for _me_?” He asks, slowly and carefully. “And what, precisely, are those feelings?”

John huffs out the beginnings of a laugh, relieved that he at least hasn’t been turned down flat, but also surprised that Sherlock has to ask. But then again, the man hadn’t even realized he was John’s best friend, so apparently he doesn’t read John as well as John thinks he does. That’s what got John thinking about confronting Sherlock in the first place. He had always assumed Sherlock knew about John’s feelings, but ignored them as a kindness because he didn’t return them. But now…John doesn’t know what to think now. But he has hope.

“Yes. I… For a long time now, I’m not even sure how long, but since well before your…suicide, I’ve…been…in love with you.” It sounds ridiculous coming out of his mouth. Weird and inadequate. Sherlock is his _whole world_. Without him, John is a shadow.

He lets his feelings go, words tumbling out faster than he can think them. “You make life worth living, Sherlock. You make me want to be stronger and smarter and braver. You challenge me, and you accept me. You make me laugh harder and longer than anyone else. You continue to be yourself even when you’re changing your habits to accommodate me. You’re surly and a drama queen and you write the most _beautiful_ music I’ve ever heard. I want to be laughing and arguing with you until we’re old and wrinkled. I want to adopt a puppy with you. I want to shove aside body parts in the fridge to make room for food. I want to watch over Mrs. Hudson with you. I want us to get arrested together when we go against stupid authority figures. I want to make you laugh when I backtalk Mycroft. I want—”

John’s Niagara Falls of sentiment is abruptly halted when Sherlock swoops down, pressing his lips to John’s. John pulls in a breath, clutches Sherlock’s biceps, and kisses Sherlock back with every fiber of his being. He puts all of the emotions he’s feeling into the kiss. The hurt and pain, the joy and love, the excitement and laughter and tears that have made up their entire life together. His hands slide up Sherlock’s arms and shoulders, up the back of his neck, and into those curls he’s been itching to touch since Day One. Sherlock’s hands slide around John’s waist and pull John closer, and he lets loose a small whimper.

The noise tugs John out of the daze brought on by the kiss, and he pulls his head back just enough to look at Sherlock. Sherlock tries to follow, and John chuckles as he slides his hands down to Sherlock’s chest.

“Hey,” he says, ducking to looking into Sherlock’s eyes. “You okay?”

“I was until you stopped,” Sherlock replies, trying to look put out, but only managing adorably pouty.

“So….we’re in agreement?”

“About not stopping? Yes.”

Sherlock tries to pull John back in, but John holds his ground. This is a life-changing moment. And as much as he’d rather spend the next ten minutes (years! life times!) snogging this gorgeous man, they need to keep their wits about them for just a bit longer.

“Sherlock, wait.”

Sherlock stops struggling and starts looking apprehensive. “You didn’t like—”

“The kissing was great, Sherlock. _Amazing_. _Perfect_.” Sherlock looks relieved, but John barrels on before he loses his mind to soft, warm lips and the strong body embracing him. “I just…need to know if you’re all in.”

Sherlock furrows his brows in confusion. “All in?”

John laughs. “Wrinkles? Puppy? Laughing and arguing…for as long as we both shall live?”

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “Of course, John. You said to kiss you if you weren’t reading too much into it. You’re not. Yes, I want wrinkles and puppies, too. With you. Forever. Now, can we get back to kissing?”

John sighs in relief (and a little in annoyance, because it’s Sherlock, and he’s always, for some reason, thought John was smarter than he actually is). “Just one more kiss. And then…I need to ensure that my life is free to give to you.”

Sherlock smiles a bit sadly and brings his forehead to John’s. “You’re sure?”

“Never been surer.”

Sherlock nods and closes the space between their lips. “One more kiss then.”


	2. Drink Up, Baby, Stay Up All Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "He still can’t believe that what began as John’s (horrendous, awful, cringe-worthy, painful, don’t think about it) stag night ended with John in his arms, promising to love him forever. He can’t believe that after years (and years and years) of wishing and hoping and beating himself up, John actually loves him back. He also can’t believe that straight-as-an-arrow John admitted that he is in love with a man (and that Sherlock is that man). And now, after two hours and three minutes of waiting, he’s beginning to believe that it was all a dream or a trick. That John isn’t coming back."

Sherlock paces the length of the living room: fireplace, area rug, coffee table, turn; table, rug, fireplace, turn. He vaguely wonders if there will be a noticeable path by the time John returns. It’s a fanciful and silly thought, but then again, his mind is full of sentiment this evening.

He still can’t believe that what began as John’s (horrendous, awful, cringe-worthy, painful, don’t think about it) stag night ended with John in his arms, promising to love him forever. He can’t believe that after years (and years and years) of wishing and hoping and beating himself up, John actually loves him back. He also can’t believe that straight-as-an-arrow John admitted that he is in love with a man (and that Sherlock is that man). And now, after two hours and three minutes of waiting, he’s beginning to believe that it was all a dream or a trick. That John isn’t coming back.

They had parted after their second kiss (John _kissed_ Sherlock), John to go see Mary and Sherlock to head back to his (their?!?) flat. “Wait up for me?” John had asked softly as Sherlock hailed a cab for him. Sherlock had agreed (obviously). John had promised not to be long.

Is two hours long? How long does it take to break up with someone? What if Mary has locked John up in a cupboard, unwilling to let him go? She is wily and smart; Sherlock doesn’t put it past her to use every trick in her arsenal to keep John by her side. She does love him, after all. Sherlock wouldn’t let John go so easily, if he were in her place.

What is he thinking? He _is_ in her place now. Sort of. He has John’s love (right? it hadn’t been just a dream?), and he will never let it go. Except…if John wants to go, of course. It will break his heart, but Sherlock will always do whatever John wants. If John decides to drop him after two weeks, Sherlock will let him. Or two months. Or two years. Whatever John decides, Sherlock will allow it. John is amazing and talented and funny and infuriating and wonderful, and he deserves everything, even if that doesn’t include Sherlock.

So Sherlock paces and waits, hoping John still wants him.

Of _course_ John wants Sherlock. He said all of those beautiful things. He let Sherlock kiss him. And he promised not to be long (two hours [and twelve minutes] _isn’t_ long, it _really_ isn’t). He looked so soft, so open. Sherlock had never seen that expression on John’s face before (except he had, every time Sherlock did something right). Sherlock knows it’s real. That John means his words and is hurrying as quickly as he can to make it back to Sherlock, to their home, to start the rest of their lives together.

His pacing must finally get to Mrs. Hudson, because she makes an appearance at two hours and thirty-nine minutes.

“What on earth are you doing? I thought you were meant to be out all night. And where’s John?” she questions as she enters the living room. She purses her lips together. “Did it not go well? I thought the dead bodies idea was lovely, but you can never tell with John. He gets tetchy about the strangest things… Shall I make some tea then? You poor de—”

“It was fine, Mrs. Hudson.”

“Obviously not, young man. You’re pacing like Wile E. Coyote, John isn’t here, and you’re going vibrate through the floor if your nerves keep up.”

“It’s fine, Mrs. Hudson.”

“Sit down, Sherlock! Or play the violin if you must do something. Just stop that interminable pacing before you owe me a new rug.”

“Shut up, Mrs. Hudson!”

“Sit! Now!”

Sherlock deflates (in a well-timed manner, just as he’s reached his chair).

“Tell me everything,” Mrs. Hudson says, taking John’s chair after she’s set the water to boiling.

“John… We… I…”

“That bad?”

Sherlock thinks back to the moment on the pavement between Bars Two and Three. John’s face, worried and scared and soft as he’d whispered, _If there’s_ any _chance that there could be something more between you and me, there’s no way I can marry Mary_. The moment Sherlock’s heart had stopped it’s solo beating and began to beat with John’s. The moment Sherlock knew hope.

“It was…perfect,” Sherlock breathes out, looking up from his lap to his landlady’s concerned face.

Her eyebrows go up. “Pardon?”

“John loves me, Mrs. Hudson. Me. Sherlock Holmes, World’s Only Consulting Detective and Chief Arsehole. He…told me he wants to grow old with me.” He sits forward as he remembers something important. “Can we have a puppy, Mrs. Hudson?”

Her eyebrows go up further as she stands to finish making the tea. “Of course he loves you, you big idiot. And we’ll see about the puppy.”

Sherlock shakes his head, growing more excited the more he remembers about their conversation (and their kiss! _two_ kisses!). “No, Mrs. Hudson. He’s _in love_ with me.”

Mrs. Hudson waves a hand from her place in the kitchen. “And you’re in love with him. This is not news to me.” She furrows her brow and chews on her lower lip. “But, what about Mary? I mean, she’s a lovely woman, but there’s something off about her. I don’t think those two would be happy together for very long. If he even _considers_ infidelity, though, I will kick you both out of this house. That would be bad for all parties involved, and I won’t be an accessory to heartbreak.”

“No!” Sherlock assures her. “Of course not. This is _John_ we’re talking about. He’s gone to talk with her. He said he would be back…soon.”

She looks at his once again worried face. “When was this?”

“Two hours and forty-three minutes ago.”

She smiles a little and hands him a cup of perfectly made tea. “It does take time to end an engagement. They probably have lots of feelings to air. It might be morning before they’re done.” She stirs her own tea thoughtfully.

“He asked me to wait up for him,” Sherlock replies, fidgeting with his cup.

Her eyes soften at his words. “He’s coming back, Sherlock. When it’s taken care of properly. Just realize that you may have to wait a little longer than you—or he—expected.”

He nods, and they drink their tea in silence.

Once finished, she tidies, then pats Sherlock on the shoulder. “I’m happy for you both. I knew from the moment I saw you two together that there was something special. I’m glad you’ve finally managed to express your feelings and become the men I always knew you to be.”

Sherlock smiles up at the lovely woman who took a chance on him all those years ago. The one who, though she doesn’t understand him like John does, has always known there was more than he lets show. She was the first step that led him to John. She was the one that sheltered them and protected them and allowed their love to grow.

“Thank you,” he says softly. “For letting us become a possibility. You’re a good friend.”

She beams at him, then leans down to kiss his cheek. “You’re very welcome, Sherlock Holmes.” When she reaches the stairs, she calls back, “I’ll be sure to wear earplugs tonight. Don’t mind me.”

He chuckles, feeling more relaxed than he has since twelve minutes into his vigil.

At three hours and two minutes, the door to the street clicks open, then shuts softly. There are footsteps on the stairs, and Sherlock tries to gauge John’s mood by their weight. Slightly tired, but no limp. Not too slow, but not quick. But it’s no use, he can’t tell, not when he’s a ball of nerves himself. Sherlock tenses, waiting for John’s face to clear the top of the stairs. Waiting for the moment when he knows.

Finally, John’s head appears, silver blond hair gleaming in soft lamp light. His face is impassive, but only for a moment. As soon as he sees Sherlock, he breaks into a smile. He’s carrying two duffles. Big ones. This is… this is good. Sherlock stands, but finds that he can’t move. He needs to hear John say it. He can’t really believe it, despite the smile and the bags and all the little things that say that John is here to stay. He needs the words to come from John’s mouth. John’s body and mouth rarely agree. But if they do this time…then Sherlock can believe. He can meet John at the door with a kiss and an embrace. Sherlock’s eyebrows lift, and John reads the question in an instant.

“I’m home.”

Sherlock breaks free of his worry and fear. He’s striding forward before he decides to do so. John drops his bags and catches Sherlock around his neck as Sherlock’s own arms circle John’s waist. Sherlock takes a moment to breath John in—his shampoo and deodorant, the outdoor air, a bit of beer that he spilled at the first bar—before leaning in to press his lips to John’s (their third kiss [third of how many? he’ll never stop counting]).

John meets him with a sigh (relief? happiness? love?) and returns the kiss. Sherlock loves how John kisses, as if he’s pouring his everything into Sherlock (what did he do to deserve that? he doesn’t know, but he’ll spend a lifetime earning it). His hands are steady as he slides them up into Sherlock’s hair (and oh, how has he lived his life without that? he could spend hours just like this), but his breath catches, and Sherlock knows John is just as affected as he is.

John chuckles and mumbles against Sherlock’s lips, “Do you know that you do that?”

“Hmmm?”

“That cute little…whimper sound. You’ve made it every time we’ve kissed.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about. Now shut up and kiss me again. Mrs. Hudson’s wearing earplugs, so no need to hold back.”

John huffs a laugh, then goes in for another kiss. “Well if we’ve got the Mrs. Hudson seal of approval…”

“Quite.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you found this enjoyable! Now that I’ve written this one, I kind of want to do another song-inspired fic (if you can’t tell from my previous writings, I get a lot of inspiration from songs) using Otis Redding’s “Cigarettes and Coffee”: “It's early in the morning / About a quarter till three / I'm sittin' here talkin' with my baby / Over cigarettes and coffee, now / And to tell you that / Darling I've been so satisfied / Honey since I met you / Baby since I met you, ooh.” What do you think, can it work? ;)


End file.
